Mobius
by Abroma
Summary: The thing about a mobius strip is that, no matter how slowly you go, or how long the journey may be, you always end up right back where you started. A Three part story.
1. Chapter 1

**2002**

"Drink?" Harry said, pushing a drink into her hand. She sniffed it. Strong. _Good_.

"Thanks," she replied, giving him a weak smile. She downed the drink in one go, hoping it was a bit stronger than the last two. Or three. Everything was becoming hazy. Not that she minded, however – she was finally beginning to relax, which she so very much needed right now.

It had been three weeks, almost exactly, since he had left. Since he had packed up what little belongings he owned in a cardboard box and walked right out the front door. She hadn't done much to stop him, but what could she have done? She was young, and she still had some dignity left. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat.

She couldn't remember the exact reason why he left – they were always fighting about one thing or another. If she were being completely honest with herself, she should have ended it long ago. At least, that was what she told herself to make herself feel better about the whole thing. That's what she told Ron, and Harry, and everyone else who made it their business to pry into her personal life. Perhaps that had been part of the problem. He had been far too closed off for her, and she knew that, but right now, watching him from across the room, she just felt gutted.

No one had warned her that he might be here. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. She was almost certain that he _wouldn't_ come, and after all, what place did a former death eater have at a gala celebrating the fifth anniversary of Lord Voldemort's death? They had even talked about it the year before, and the year before that, every since he had begun working under her. She kept telling him how much it would help his image, and he had always refused.

But there he was, chatting up her director's daughter right in front of the bar. Her grip tightened around her glass. Now she couldn't even get another one without him seeing her. And no matter how many drinks she had already had, she _really_ needed another to make it through the night in one piece.

"You really do look beautiful," Harry continued, placing his hand on the small of her lower back. She leaned into him.

"I honestly didn't think he'd come," she murmured.

"Me neither. You know I would have told you if I knew." Harry began rubbing his hand in small circles on her back. She closed her eyes. It felt nice. But what she really wanted was another drink. She wasn't quite intoxicated enough to handle this situation.

"Come on, Hermione," Harry said, leading her out to the floor, "let's dance."

**I**

He likes to say that this was the first time he really saw her – standing in front of the shop window, admiring a sky blue gown. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she is itching to stretch her fingers out across the glass, the only obstacle between her and the dress. She adjusts a handbag on her shoulder with her other arm, never taking her eyes away from the display. Her lips separate slightly, but she closes them in the next second.

It was the first time in over a year that he has seen her – the first time that he has really been out of the Manor since the war. As much as it pains him to be in that house, it pains him more to be out of it, for some reason he doesn't know. Perhaps it's the idea of going out and facing the world, a world that he has no place in, that scares him. Or, maybe it's just the fear of running into those people he used to know. Those who have watched him grow up and subsequently fall apart. People like her.

He is walking in her direction, prepared to take a deep breath, close his eyes, and pass her without another thought, when she sees him. She isn't the only one looking at him. As he walks through the streets, his eyes cast downwards, his hands stuck roughly in the pockets of his neatly pressed trousers, he can see them through the corner of his eyes. Heads snap towards him as they walk past. They steer clear, giving him more than enough room to walk by, as if they are afraid of what he would do to them. He would scoff at them, if it weren't such a painful thought to him.

He feels the leaves crunching beneath his feet, and hears the whistling of the wind as it hurtles past his ears. If he was looking upwards, he would see her grasp her hair in a fist in a futile attempt to control it. He may even laugh at her, or mock her, or do something else reminiscent of the man she knew. Well, the man she _thought_ she knew, because what could she really, _truly_ know about him?

She was looking away by the time he reaches her, he knows that much. He would do the same – in fact, he _is _doing the same, isn't he? His back is rigid, his hands clenched into fists, held tight against his legs through the pockets of his trousers. His steps are stiff and methodical, like he has to think about it every time he put one foot in front of the other.

**2002**

"…and then after the war, I lived in Australia for a year or two, just to get away from everything."

Draco nodded absently, but couldn't for the life of him remember any part of this woman's story, though he was sure it was fascinating. She was nice enough, the daughter of the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, top of her class, and pretty as well. Every time she smiled, her dimples would show at the corners of her mouth. She was blonde, though, and Draco didn't normally go for blondes. Anymore.

"Can I get you another drink?" He suggested. She held up her glass – she still hadn't finished her first drink. He really hadn't been paying attention. He only knew that he had finished his – was it his third? Fifth? – and was aching for another. Anything to keep his mind occupied. And perhaps make this woman just a little more interesting to him.

As he walked across to the bar – all of three steps, perhaps – he looked over at _her. _He had been watching her all night, from the moment she came in with Weasley to this moment now, walking onto the floor with Potter. He seethed. She probably didn't even know he was there.

"Can I get you something?" He snapped his head back towards the bar, where the bartender was standing patiently across from him. He quickly looked back toward the dancing couple and clenched his fists.

Potter's arms were wrapped around her waist. She had her arms around his neck and her head on his chest. Something raged inside of Draco, but he couldn't decide if it was because it was Potter, or because it used to be _him_. Maybe it was a combination of both.

He considered walking over there. Once he was there, though, what would he do? Cut in? She hated his guts. She was probably still mad at him after he stormed out a few weeks ago, though for the life of him he couldn't remember why he did. All he knew was that he was _not_ going to contact her, because whatever it was, he was right and she was wrong. She was far too bossy for her own good, and he wasn't going to feed into that.

So, instead of going over to her like he so wanted to, he simply ordered another drink – whiskey – and turned his back.

And then, not a moment later, decided, _fuck it_. He set down his glass and hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second. Then he closed his eyes, clenched his fist, and made his way to the center of the room.

After all, what did he have left to lose?

**II**

He has been inside the Ministry of Magic before, has experienced its inner workings. His father had been an official back in the day, prior to his family's social exile from the Wizarding world. Back then, he was treated like a prince, with his father being the mighty king, the one who Draco aspired to be like when _he _grew up.

Now that he is all grown up, however, the irony finally strikes him, though it isn't as funny as maybe it should be. Does one usually find it humorous when they realize that everything they used to strive for is just a sick, cruel joke? Draco doesn't quite feel like laughing. He may have be more inclined to do so were he not the subject of almost every current employee's hateful stares or biting remarks.

The corridors are colder than he remembers, not that he remembers very well. It has been years since he's been in these halls, and even when he was, he'd been in the company of his father. People used to give them both respectful nods as they passed, and he would look up at his father, his chin jutting out prominently as he held his head high – _Be proud of who you are_, Lucius would always tell him – and he would do the same, thinking what great fun it was to be a Malfoy.

Finally, he makes it to the lifts. There is a rather large group of wizards and witches waiting themselves, and Draco pushes his way to the front. It isn't hard. As soon as they see him coming, they move instinctively out of his way. A few years ago, he would have been pleased. He would have used it to his advantage. Now, however, he wishes that things had gone some other way – that he isn't one of the most hated wizards of the day, and that people aren't so fucking _scared_ of him. Surely there is _somebody_ in this godforsaken world who could trust him.

When the lift came, he holds his head high and walks in, making his way to the back corner of the small enclosure to make room for the many people that are sure to be coming on with him. In his right hand he clutches the note that started it all – a small letter from the head of the Administrative Registration Department, Miss Granger herself. He doesn't know why he is here, or why he even thought to respond, and he _especially_ doesn't know why she is head of the department, but now here he is. He turns around as the lift starts to move.

Nobody has gotten on with him.

**2002**

Her third (or fourth) drink kicked in as soon as Harry dragged her off onto the dance floor. She wasn't sure what she had, but she could tell she wasn't walking very straight. Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and put her arms around his neck, pulling her closer, She buried her head in his chest. In retrospect, she knew she shouldn't have had so much to drink so quickly. Not because she was going to feel it tomorrow – well, not just that – but because she was finding it harder and harder to not think about the thing that she wasn't letting herself think about.

Especially when that thing was cutting into her dance.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry bit out. Hermione closed her eyes.

"I'm cutting in."

"You are?" Harry looked around. "Well, it looks like I'm dancing with her right now, and-"

"That's right, I almost forgot you were in charge of every aspect of Granger's life. Granger?" He tilted his head and Hermione balked. Was he expecting an answer? She didn't know if she could speak.

But she found her voice. "Stay away from me Malfoy," she said icily. "You made it _quite_ clear that you wanted nothing to do with me."

Well, _shit_. Why did she have to bring that up? Draco faltered. He hated it when she got under his skin like this, which tended to happen every moment they were together.

"It's not a bloody _proposal_, Granger, it's a stupid _dance_. I hear it's what people do at these things." He extended his hand again. To anyone else, it wouldn't sound even remotely like a challenge. But he knew her, _really _knew her, and he just _knew _that she would say –

"_One _dance. That's it."

He pursed his lips.

**III**

A week later, he looks up from where he sits, in a large armchair in front of her desk, where he expects he will be spending most of his time soon. She is sitting at her desk, staring at the papers in front of her – his contract. He shuffles the papers resting on his own lap, leafing through them as she reads, trying to do something during the awkward silence that has fallen between them. He looks up at her every few seconds, but he doubts she notices. She bites her lip and fiddles with her quill as her eyes scan the page and she tucks her hair behind her ears.

"You've got Harland Brooks on this list," he notices once he has looked back down at his own work, taking a sheet from the middle of his stack and placing it on top so he can look through it more closely. "And Amon Durkis," he adds.

"Mm," she murmurs, not even lifting her head. Finally, she picks up her quill and signs her name where she needs to. Save for the scratching as she scrapes the quill across the parchment, the room is silent. Draco realizes he isn't even breathing as he waits for her response. When she is done, she looks up at him, at last giving him her full attention. "And?"

He gives a sharp exhale. "Brooks never took the mark. And Durkis is dead."

She blinks. Then, she blinks again. Her scrutiny is nerve-wracking for him. He knows he is right, dammit! He was _there_, and she knows it. That's why she brought him in for this stupid job. "Dead?"

He nods stiffly. "At the battle."

She shakes her head. "That's not possible. He was in here a few months ago for questioning."

"Well then that obviously wasn't him, was it?" he replies bitingly. Does she really think she would know better than him? He continues to look through the list he has in his hands, the Ministry's list of known, living former Death Eaters – those people that the Ministry still consider a threat. It is a list of people Draco knows, and it is a strange experience seeing them all laid out for him like this. Some are in Azkaban, some are in hiding, and some, like Draco, are absolved. "Besides, your 'questioning' can't be that good, if you think Brooks belongs on this list."

He turns the page, running his finger over each of the names. He knows them all, and they all trigger a specific memory for him. He remembers Buford Grant tugging on his right sleeve, _begging_ him for a way out of Malfoy Manor. He had said nothing, only shrugging him off of his arm and stoically keeping his face turned forward. _Must not show weakness_.

He remembers being terrified of Eldon Hadfield, leering as he raised his wand toward a witch that Draco didn't know. He had wanted desperately to look away, but he watched. He watched as she writhed in pain on the floor of the home he had grown up in, heard her screams echoing off the walls, coupled with the sardonic laugh as Hadfield continued to torture her. _Must not show weakness._

He can even remember Warren Jameson, hiding in the seventh floor corridor at Hogwarts, as the battle raged on outside. He remembers wanting to hide with him, to wait until the battle was over before making himself know, but he knew that he had a job to do, and his the lives of his parents were at stake if he didn't perform it well enough. He remembers wondering, later, if Jameson had made it. Apparently, he has. Draco continues down the list.

"Granger," he says tightly. She looks up at him. "You've got _me_ on this list."

**2002**

"You and Potter seem quite…chummy," Malfoy grimaced. One hand rested on her waist, the other clasped her own hand.

"_This_ again? If this is all you have to say to me, then please-" she moved to step away from him, but he tightened his grasp.

"_More than usual_, I mean."

It had been one of the big issues in their relationship, if you could call it that. The amount of time she had spent with him was daunting, and to be honest, Draco was intimidated, although he'd never admit that to her. But how was he supposed to compete with Golden boy, Renaissance man? What did he have that could even compare to him? Of course, all he told Hermione was that he "didn't like Potter at all," and didn't like her spending so much time with him.

"Yes, well, about eight months ago my boyfriend left me out of the blue, and I was a real mess, and Harry helped me put everything back together. Ron, too. It's a pity he couldn't come tonight."

"I'm quite torn up about it," Draco rolled his eyes. "And did you ever think, maybe this _boyfriend _didn't think it was so out of the blue? And maybe if you had only _appreciated_ him-"

"_You_ felt unappreciated?" She interrupted.

His eyes locked with hers for a slow minute before he responded, tightly and controlled.

"We both knew it was an offer made out of pity. It wasn't going to last forever. Kingsley _offered_ me another position, I didn't-"

"I was told you went looking for him. Told him you didn't want to work under me anymore."

He let her hand go so he could run his knuckes over his forehead – a tick he had whenever he was feeling especially…_emotional_. He grabbed her hand again roughly. "It's…more complicated than that." _When was this blasted song going to end?_

"We could have talked about it," she said defiantly. "You just ran at the first sign of trouble, just like-"

He cut her off. "You wouldn't have understood," he said, looking away.

"_Why not_?"

**IV**

He is early that morning, as he walks through the now-familiar corridors towards Hermione's office. His mother and father are once again berating him for including himself in the business of Death Eaters – echoes of _did you learn nothing from the first time_ and _Nothing good can come of this_ are still ringing in his ears. In Draco's eyes, he is redeeming himself, but in their eyes, he is only putting himself in the middle of everything once again.

It's been three months since Granger offered him this job, and so far nothing dangerous has happened. He makes sure to play it safe. He only helps Granger with keeping track of them all, but he never testifies, and he's not even sure they know what he has been doing. Granger has told him that only those in the Ministry know that he is here.

When he reaches the door to her office, he knocks twice. He hears a fair bit of shuffling behind the door, more than usual, and a muffled "come in!" He is cautious in opening the door, not quite sure what is going on on the other side. When he walks into the room, she is straightening herself in her chair, smoothing her hair back and pressing the wrinkles out of her skirt with her palms. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

"You're early," she says, slightly frazzled. He didn't think it would be that big of a deal.

"I know."

"Well," she says. She looks around her desk. Her eyes widen when they fall upon a short stack of folders, and Draco swears he can see them sparkle. "Well, here, then," she continues, sliding the pile to the center of her desk and opening the file on top. She is reading through it when Draco sees the crumpled memo lying on the corner of her desk.

He takes a few steps forward. "What is that?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the small piece of paper. Hermione pales so slightly that if he hadn't been spending almost every waking minute with her, he probably would have missed it.

"Oh, that's, erm-" she stutters, and clears her throat. "That's nothing."

She goes to reach for it, but he is too quick for her and in a split second it is in his hand. He knows it isn't good – Hermione is probably the easiest person to read that he's ever met, and he can see it in her face. The way her eyes dart from his hand back to his face, then away from him altogether. The way she bites the inside of her cheek, which she only does when she's nervous. The most telling sign, however, is the fact that she's frozen, her hands still holding open that blasted file, her back slightly hunched over.

He's thankful that she is such an open book. It makes his job much easier when he doesn't have to guess what she's thinking.

He begins to unfold the note, but her voice stops him.

"Don't," she says. "Please…you won't like it. I was going to get rid of it." The protection in her voice stalls him for a moment, holds him back, but he soon resumes what he was doing.

When he has read it through, twice, he looks up at her, his hand shaking as it still holds the small square. It is clenched tightly in his fingers, so tightly that he doubts anyone would be able to pry it out. His other hand comes up and pushed his hair back and out of his eyes, and he grits his teeth.

"You get a lot of these, I suppose?" he asks, though he already knows the answer. She sighs and nods slowly, as he expected. "Where are the rest?"

She hesitates, but eventually reaches down and slowly opens the bottom drawer of her desk. Draco walks around to where she is sitting and kneels down in front of the drawer. She watches him as he reaches into the mass of crumpled paper and pulls another note out. She closes her eyes and sighs, already knowing what it says.

_He's going to ruin the Ministry from the inside out!_ She recites to herself.

He is silent for at least a minute, reading and re-reading the hate letters she has stashed in her bottom drawer. Finally, he says, "You keep them?" He hears her start to defend herself, but, again, he is quicker than she is, and much more volatile. "You bring them home at the end of the day, put them in frames and place them all around your flat, I bet," he continues, his voice rising with each word. "Show them off to all your friends."

Hermione doesn't say anything, which surprises him. He thought she'd at least have some retort on the tip of her tongue, but all she does is grab her wand and mutter "_Incendio_," pointing the wand towards the paper that is still in his hands.

He drops the memo immediately as the edges are engulfed in small flames, letting it flutter helplessly to the floor, and cries out, "_Fuck_, Granger, have you gone mental?"

She ignores him, and turns back to the folders on her desk. She picks two up and holds them out for him to take. "Since you're here early, you might as well get to work," she says, not meeting his eye.

He takes the folders from her, still unsure as to what just happened.

**2002**

He watched as she made her way back over to where Harry was sitting. He could see a few more of their friends gathered around them, including Longbottom and Lovegood (who were apparently a couple now, though Draco couldn't see how that would last at all), and the youngest Weasley.

He swilled his glass a little bit as he admitted to himself that his big plan to get Granger back had failed somewhat miserably. He had trouble controlling what he said when he was around her – he always had. She had a strange effect on him, where he wasn't sure what was the right or wrong thing to say or do.

He took one last glance at her, her hair falling gracefully down her back as she tilted her head back, laughing. He closed his eyes, downed the rest of his drink, and left to ballroom to apparate home.

**V**

Autumn is beginning to turn into winter when she tells him, "I've been talking to Kingsley, the Minister." She is wringing her hands and biting her lip, and is obviously nervous about telling him the rest. He waits patiently, but is instantly on the defensive. What has he done wrong? He has put his everything into this job, ignoring the protests of his mother and father, in an effort to finally gain a shred of dignity, and he doesn't know what he will do if he loses that chance.

Perhaps, they just don't need him anymore. Maybe Hermione feels like she can now do this job alone, without him, which she probably can, to be honest. Or maybe she's finally decided to listen to those hate letters, which he knows she still receives every day. He's learned to identify the smell of burning paper, even long after it has been burned and the office aired out. It never goes away fully. He doesn't know whether to be upset that she is still getting them, or thankful that she chooses to ignore them.

He stands there, his hands in his pockets, swaying back onto his heels, as she takes a deep breath and continues. "I asked him, well, he agreed with me, said he was thinking about it already, and-"

"Granger," he says finally, effectively cutting her off. He can't help the spiteful tone of his voice, but she doesn't flinch. "Were you going to tell me or just prattle on until I leave myself?" Because he is sure that he is being asked not to come back, and as much as he'd like to stay, he knows there is nothing he can do. If the war taught him anything, it was to recognize a losing battle.

She furrows her brow. "Why are you…?" and as she trails off, he can see the spark of understanding. Understanding of what, he doesn't know, but he's sure she'll tell him soon enough, so he stays quiet. She chuckles to herself and walks around her desk to him, placing her hand on his arm and urging him toward the door. "Come with me, you dolt."

He scowls, but follows her down the hall to another door, not far away from her office. There's nothing on the door, but she gives him a small smile as she opens it and pushes him lightly inside. He is confused at first, but when he looks around – sees his own name on a nameplate on the desk, above the title _Head of Death Eater Registration_ – his jaw drops slightly and he brings his hand up to rub his knuckles over his brow.

"We thought that you could use the extra space," she says, still standing by the door. When he looks back at her, she is smiling, and he suddenly feels the need to tell her something. To tell her what it means to him to have been given this opportunity in the first place, what it means that she trusts him enough to give him this small office. But he doesn't say anything, because she gives him a nod, and he knows that she understands.

He runs his hands over the wooden desk, and it's _real_, it's all real, and he could probably cry if he let himself, because he has never been the head of anything before in his life.

And he thinks that maybe this could be the first step in becoming the man he hopes to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**VI**

Draco can't recall when exactly this thing inside him snapped. If he thinks about it, it feels like he's felt this way all along, although he knows this isn't true. He can remember the very moment he realized it, though. Her hand on the doorknob, a stack of folders in her arms, and all he can think about is twisting that small curl around his finger and tucking it behind her ear. He stuffs his hands in his pockets instead.

And all of a sudden, she is _everywhere_. Now everything he sees reminds him of her. She occupies his every waking thought, and it scares him. It is downright terrifying that she should hold this amount of power over him, and not even know the extent of it. That she could give him one look and he would be lost for the next half an hour. She never should have given him her trust. It means more to him than she could ever know, and now he can never escape her.

A knock on the door causes instant panic inside him – heart thumping, hands clammy, all of it – and he curses himself. He can't believe how weak he is being. For goodness' sake, she's just a woman, and not even a very attractive one. He had been around his fair share of women, and her plain hair, generic face and short stature wouldn't hold a candle to some of the women he had been around.

But then she opens the door and he knows he is only telling himself these things because she isn't plain – in fact, she's _gorgeous_, and suddenly he has lost his train of thought and ends up shuffling a pile of papers on his desk to hide the fact that she has him completely engrossed.

He doesn't know what she says, and he doesn't know what he replies. But, when she leaves, he thinks he'd better go to Kingsley as soon as possible, because he doesn't think this arrangement is going to work out anymore.

**2003**

Hermione smiled widely at Harry as he led her into the ballroom for the 5th annual "end-of-the-war" Anniversary Ball. A diamond ring sparkled elegantly on her left ring finger, and she made sure to keep in casually in everyone's view, her arm linked with her fiancé's, so that by the end of the night, everybody would know that she was to be the future Mrs. Potter. He had only asked a few days ago, and this would be the first public outing since it had happened.

Hermione felt that she deserved it. She deserved to be happy, especially after it was so suddenly ripped from her life a year ago, much like a rug being tugged out from beneath you without your knowledge. She hoped he would be here tonight. She had some gloating that she needed to do. And she didn't even need to be drunk for it.

She hadn't spoken to Malfoy since the ball last year, and even that wasn't long enough for her taste. She knew he was here, though, standing by the open bar, _again_. She prided herself on having matured greatly over the past year so that she didn't even feel the need for a drink yet, whereas last year she had already been on her third by this point. He caught her eye, and she looked away.

Harry leant his head down to hers and spoke into her ear. "There's Kingsley over there," he directed her gaze. "Ready?"

Hermione looked up at him and smiled.

**VII**

He is just starting to clear out his small office when she knocks on the door. He turns around and sees her standing in the doorway, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe, her eyes questioning. Suddenly, he has no idea what to say. He had been going in this moment in his head all week, even wrote down a few rough drafts of what he would say to her, but now that she is actually here, he is lost for words. The look on her face makes him want to put everything back where it was and forget the whole thing.

"I talked to Kingsley," she says hesitantly. She hasn't moved, as if she's afraid to step into the office that she had spent so much time in before.

Draco looks down at the box sitting on his desk. It will probably hold all of his belongings in it – that will make this easier. "So," he begins uncomfortably, "I guess you heard then."

She nods, and then looks around the room. "May I come in?" she asks, as if it is her first time coming to see him.

"Of course." Draco gestures to the chair in front of the desk. He had gotten it specifically for her when he realized she would be making fairly regular appearances at his office. Not that he minded. She sits down and leans back, crossing her legs. Her fingers play with the seams in the fabric.

"I don't think it was right," she says, and Draco instantly feels guilty. He never wanted her to be disappointed in him, but he _can't_ keep working with her because he'll never get anything done while she is around him. "I can't imagine why Kingsley would transfer you so quickly without telling anyone."

Draco froze. She doesn't know that it was his idea. She thinks that the minister transferred him, and she thinks that he is upset about it. Draco can't decide whether this is a good thing or a bad thing, but decides to go with it.

"Well," he responds, "there's not much I can do about it now."

"But the _muggle liaison office_? Even you have to think that's a little uncalled for."

Of course, it was Draco's own idea to be transferred to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophe's, and more specifically, the Muggle Liaison Office. He thinks that this is only another great way to raise people's opinions of him, even those who do not know what he has been doing for the past year. He sees it as the logical next step to gaining the population's trust.

"I can talk to Kingsley for you, if you'd like."

Draco shakes his head. No, he's already spoken to Kingsley. Besides, apart from the fact that he will be working nowhere near the object of his current obsession, the pay is better, the potential is higher, and perhaps he will finally be able to let go the final remnants of the war. No, this is a good thing. He turns back to his desk and continues to place his few belongings in his box.

"Listen," Hermione stands up and takes a small step towards him. Her fingers graze the top of his desk. "I was just going to grab some lunch. I was wondering if you would like to come with me." She gives him a smirk. "Think of it as a 'congratulations' of sorts."

**2003**

"That's Isadora Tallent," Magdalene Brooks, Director of Muggle Relations, whispered in Draco's ear. She placed her hand on his arm and directed him to Isadora. "She's head of the research department at St. Mungo's. If they sign on, you'll be working very closely with her."

As they approached her, Draco could see Hermione out of the corner of his eye. He saw her arm latched onto Potter's, laughing at something the Minister had just said. And then he caught sight of the glittering ring on her finger, fighting the urge to look her way. Something bubbled up inside his chest, something like anger, or jealousy, or maybe it was just his dinner, but either way he had to fight to keep it down.

"Isadora," Magdalene started, taking her hand, "this is Draco Malfoy, head of our newest subdivision of the Muggle Liaison Office."

Isadora gave him a warm smile and shook his hand firmly. "Mr. Malfoy, nice to meet you. I've heard all about your proposal."

Draco smirked. "Well, not much of a proposal anymore, is it? All we need is Mr. Thatcher's signature to move ahead. I've already started working on my team. I've got a lot of ideas."

It had been in the works for almost a year. He had first come up with the idea about ten months ago, and since then had been making contacts with influential characters all throughout the ministry who would be able to back him up. It was eight months ago that he approached Magdalene, who was immediately been on his side. That, however, had been the easy part.

The idea was simple – to form and maintain relations with local Muggle hospitals in order to supply them with magical medicines to be used for research, testing and, hopefully, finding cures for some of those muggle diseases that didn't seem to trouble the magical population.

Magdalene had a certain amount of pull with her superiors, but it was hard to find many people that were on board with the idea. Decades upon decades of avoiding each other had made people cautious towards muggle-wizard cooperation. Draco had to put together multiple presentations for higher-ups in the ministry as well as those at St. Mungo's.

Finally, eight months later, he had the all clear. All that was left was to get Broderick Thatcher's, Head of St. Mungo's, signature, which would most likely happen in a week when Thatcher came back from a conference in Spain. A new subdivision was created just for him, and he had started looking into who he wanted to join him. If he were being completely objective, he would ask Granger, but that was clearly out of the question. It was a shame though, given her intellectual ability.

"I look forward to working with you, then," Isadora replied. "Come with me, I'll introduce you to some of the healers in my department."

As Isadora led him away, he looked across the room. Hermione's arm was still locked with Potter's, though now they were talking to a different influential figure, apparently trying to make their engagement as public as possible. It made him sick. Even from this far away, he could tell she had changed. The way her hair was done so intricately, or the way her outfit was perfectly coordinated, or even the way she kept flashing her ridiculously over-the-top engagement ring (which he knew Potter would _never_ pick out) to everyone she spoke to.

Suddenly, she looked over at him, and their eyes locked. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he looked away.

"This is Caddock Toulson," Isadora introduced. Draco pulled his attention back to her. "He works with potions and antidotes."

As Draco shook Caddock's hand, he let his eyes wander for the shortest moment to where Hermione was standing, letting his other hand drift into his pocket to finger the little black box he had there.

**VIII**

"I got it when my mother died," she says, pulling her hair around to her left shoulder so he can see the small tattoo she has behind her right ear. He has to lean in close in order to make out the image, and all he can think about is that this is probably the closest he has ever physically been to her. He almost forgets to look at her tattoo.

"It's a mobius strip," she says. "Do you know what that is?"

He shakes his head, and she continues. "It's only got one side, you see. Well, not really. You think you know what's going to happen, but then you try going around it, and you end up going around both sides of it before you get back to the beginning. And you _always_ come back to where you started."

"And then what?" Draco asks.

She shrugs. "You keep going, I guess. It's just something that reminds me of her. I don't know why."

"How-" he breaks off, unsure if she will think his question inappropriate. "How did she die?"

"Breast Cancer."

Draco looks at her, confused. As far as he knows, cancer is a cured disease. They have potions for it at St. Mungo's. He has never thought that it might be an issue for someone. But Hermione notices his lack of understanding.

"Muggles haven't gotten as far as we have when it comes to progress in medical technologies," she explains. "I tried to have her transferred to St. Mungo's as soon as we found out, but they wouldn't allow it."

"I'm sorry," Draco mutters awkwardly, although he knows it isn't enough. He can never be enough. "When?"

"A little less than a year after the war. She was diagnosed when I brought her and my father back from Australia and it progressed quickly," she twirls a piece of hair around her fingers nonchalantly, but Draco can sense something more, something _deeper_. Despite his curiosity, however, he is too afraid to question her further, so he stays silent.

"Sometimes I think about trying to make a change," she continues. "So that someone else won't have to go through the same thing I did. I don't know where I'd start though. Maybe going into muggle medicine, using what we know about magical cures. Or setting up a ward in St. Mungo's for muggle family members." She sighs, and pulls her hair back behind her ears.

Then she looks up at him and smiles. "Anyway, I'm sorry about the depressing conversation. Are you ready?" She makes to stand up, placing her napkin on the table and pushing her chair out. Draco nods, and is struck with the sudden realization that this just may be the last time he sees her. After today, they will work in different departments, and he cannot think of a single situation where he would be able to see her outside of work.

And so, as she stands up and begins to walk towards the door, he finds himself calling out to her.

"Granger," he says, his heart pounding wildly. He almost forgets how to speak when she turns back to look at him. He says it quickly because he knows if he takes too long he will change his mind: "Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night."

He is floored when she says yes.

**2003**

Halfway through the night, Draco was cursing Hermione's newfound popularity. He called it newfound because he couldn't recall this many people flocking her at one time. Sure, she had always been popular, but this was ridiculous. Of course, when he thought about it a little more, he decided that it might just be because he was actively looking for a time to go over and talk to her.

Hermione, on the other hand, was determined to keep as busy as possible. She knew that as soon as she was alone, he would find a way to drag her off somewhere to _talk_. So, she did everything in her power to keep people around her. She hung onto Harry's arm for as long as possible until he had walked away about ten minutes ago to catch up with the Director of Portkey Authorization, a person Hermione had no interest in making friends. with.

So, she opted for an uncomfortable conversation with Cormac McLaggen. It was better than the alternative, whom she could see lurking by the bar, watching her. Yes, this was definitely better.

Draco scowled. He could tell that she was avoiding him the moment she stepped up to McLaggen. Hell, he had even _helped _her get out of an awkward situation with the git, and now Draco seemed to be caught on the other side, and he didn't like it. Not one bit. The only upside was that the conversation couldn't possibly last long, giving Draco a wide window to approach her.

Or so he thought. But as soon as she was done with McLaggen, the other third of the Golden Trio walked up to her and gave her a hug, and Draco was almost positive that this conversation would last a little longer.

He was also convinced that Granger had enlisted the help of the entire ministry just to keep him at bay, and he didn't like that thought at all.

He sipped from his drink – they were lasting a lot longer this year than the year before – and watched her. He would have his chance. He had all night, after all, and she couldn't avoid him forever.

**IX**

It is a good twenty seconds from the moment he knocks on the door until Hermione opens it. Twenty seconds of panic, dread, fear, and every other emotion under the sun. Draco doesn't know how he can feel so much at one time, but it's all there. Nervous excitement, anxiety, and a small nagging feeling that he should just turn around because this is a horrible idea and nothing would ever come of it. But before he can, she is there, and just the fact that she hasn't backed out yet knocks the wind out of him.

And not only is she there, but she is breathtaking. He doesn't know what she is wearing, but he is enraptured and for a moment doesn't remember how to proceed. So she takes the lead.

"Draco, come in," she says, and she _smiles_ at him, and he can't believe this is actually happening, that he somehow deserves this. Everything about him is wrapped up in this woman in front of him, and he finally realizes it now. Everything he has, everything he is, is because of her, and he doesn't know how he could have existed without her.

As he walks in, he knows he has to tell her, or show her, or somehow let her know just how much this all means to him – all of it, all she has ever done for him.

And so he does the only thing he can think of at the moment, and kisses her, both of them standing in her doorway.

He can feel her smiling against his lips.

**2003**

He waited until she was finished talking to the head of the Department of Magical Transportation before approaching her. Finally, she was free of Potter, Weasley, and anyone else that might pose a problem for him, and he wasn't about to miss his chance. It would probably be the only chance he would get with her for the next year.

"Granger," he said as he walked up behind her. She turned suddenly and tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

"Malfoy," she said curtly. "Have you seen my fiancé?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Granger, I know you're engaged. You've been flashing that oversized rock around all evening."

"You're just upset because it's nicer than anything _you_ could have picked out."

Draco smirked and reached into his pocket. Hermione's breath hitched as he pulled out a small black box and popped it open. He looked at it for a second, as if inspecting it, as if it was his first time seeing it. He turned it around so Hermione could see it, and she gasped as she brought her hand up to her mouth.

"I guess you're right," he said, snapping the box shut and slipping it back into his pocket. "I would have picked something a little less flashy, though."

Her eyes narrowed at him. "What are you playing at?" she asked accusingly, taking a step towards him. "I saw you chatting up Isadora Tallent. She's engaged, you know."

"Jealous?" Draco asked, and winked at her. "It's all business anyway. I'm sure you'll read about it in the _Prophet_ in the next couple of weeks."

"I'll be sure to disregard it, then," Hermione dismissed. "Why do you have that?" she asked, pointing to the pocket that held the ring.

"I was thinking of offering it to you tonight," he said casually. "Of course, that was before I knew you were engaged, to _Potter_, by the way." He smoothed down a few wrinkles in his shirt. "And before I knew you had turned into this prissy little bitch."

She gaped at him. "Excuse me?"

"Look at you, Granger," he said, gesturing from her head to her toes. "Your toes are _pedicured_. You didn't even know what that word _meant_ a few years ago."

"That's not-"

"How long did it take you to do your hair?" He asked. "Did you even do your own hair?"

She blushed and looked away, and her hand immediately went to check on her tightly wound high bun. He was right – she hadn't even done her own hair that night.

"Last year, do you remember what you wore, or how your hair looked?" Hermione shook her head. "Your hair was straight – that's it."

Hermione scowled at him. "It's a little more work being the fiancée of Harry Potter, you know. The media follows us everywhere we go, I'm always in the spotlight-"

"You were already a celebrity, Granger. I don't care what your excuse is, the woman I knew wouldn't have settled for her best friend."

"_Settled_?" she gaped at him. "You don't even –" Hermione broke off, seething. "and who do you think you are, to try and tell me who I can and can't-"

"It's the _comfortable_ choice, and you know it."

She threw her arms in the air in exasperation. "Well what's wrong with that, Malfoy? What's wrong with wanting to, to _settle down_ and not have to worry about everything so much?"

"You're twice the worker he is. He will never be able to keep up with you intellectually," Draco responded. "You'll never be happy with each other's lifestyles. You'll get bored, and you know it."

"Because you know me so well, is that it?"

He smirked. "I know you well enough to get you a ring you actually like."

She gaped at him and turned around. He caught a quick glimpse of the tattoo behind her ear. "I suppose next you'll say that _you_ can offer me all these things, right? Convince me to leave my fiancé, who I am _crazy_ about, by the way, and just run off with you, leaving behind all of my friends, family, and basically everyone I've ever cared about? Merlin, you are _so-_"

"Spot on, Granger," he said, and she spun back to face him, incredulous. He swallowed and kept going. "Marry me," he continued. "Marry _me_."


End file.
